"TALIESSEN is our fullest throat of song."—The Holy Grail.
Our fullest throat of song is silent, hushed
In Autumn, when the songless woods are still,
And with October's boding hectic flushed
Slowly the year disrobes. A passionate thrill
Of strange proud sorrow pulses through the land,
His land, his England, which he loved so well:
And brows bend low, as slow from strand to strand
The Poet's passing bell
Sends forth its solemn note, and every heart